(Kalos)(Eidos)(Skopeo)
by JustOverThere
Summary: "The Observation of Beautiful Forms". Καλός (Kalos) adj. – Beautiful, Lovely. εἶδος (Eidos) n. – That which is seen. σκοπέω (Skopeo) vb. – I Look at, Behold. This is the story of how we lived. This is the story of how nothing turned into everything. This is the story of how there was beauty in every darkness. AH. AU.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but these words in this order. **

**Rated M for language and mature themes.**

**xx**

Slowly, my eyes adjust, but it takes me a while to process what they actually see. The light is strange in here; it warps the room creating an almost fisheye-like effect. All I can see is black and white, though the walls are a perfect grey. I try to imagine what their real colour is, but for some reason I can't quite place it. Perhaps it isn't an illusion; perhaps this is their real colour – this lonely shade of grey. It's oddly fitting.

My eyes are drawn to a black chest of drawers that rests carefully against the grey. As I look closer the light tricks my eyes, making odd, mangled shapes appear on the top of the chest. I blink. It's not a trick.

My hand twitches in anticipation as my arm slowly rises of its own accord. I reach out to the first one, my eyes adjusting yet again, and I see that its outline is no longer strange but a familiar rectangular shape.

The skin of my fingers makes first contact with the object. They glide easily along its smooth surface, revelling in the bizarre warmth it radiates. I reach the end of the side and tiny spindly shapes drift from the object, dancing in the light. I raise my finger to my eyes to take a closer look. Dust. At least an inch of the stuff covers all of its surfaces.

Carefully I lift it off the chest, and wipe a cautious thumb over the front of the glass. It takes a while but eventually a little colour can be seen through the thick covering. Before I get a chance to wipe the remaining dust away, a soft glitter catches my eye. I let my fingers drift down to the source, aching to feel the soft smooth surface of the wooden frame again.

But it's cold. What my skin encounters is not smooth or soft or warm. No. It's cold. It's hard. It chills me to the bone. One sweep across this surface reveals it- a shiny new silver plaque.

_Chillin' Charlie 1994_

My fingers begin to shake as they retrace their steps, moving back to the glass cover, itching to remove the dust and reveal what lies under it. They remove the remaining dust in one clean stroke, leaving me with a picture, no longer hidden by years of neglect.

I squint against the new colour: the rich yellow of the sun, the deep blue sky, the fresh green grass – they all but blind me. It's the car that stands out; a safe grey, a familiar sight. Leaning against it is a man from the past, the man in my memory, the man whose name was imprinted below – Chillin' Charlie Swan.

It's from a time I don't remember, couldn't possibly remember. It's a picture from just before I was born. This isn't my Charlie – his smile too bright, his eyes too joyful – no, nothing here is recognizable.

I frown gently at the picture. Why is it here? Of all the people my father has been, why did I find this one? Something on his chest shimmers in the sun. I squint a little; I see the familiar Forks Police Department badge. This picture had certainly gone far into the past, right back to Charlie's first day on the force.

I had lost count of how many times he'd come home late, smelling like cheap coffee, still shuffling through copies of case files and the odd report he'd had to bring home. Charlie had been the best police chief around; there wasn't a lead that wasn't followed, a criminal that wasn't caught, a case that wasn't closed – and even that had its consequences. He loved justice, but God was it rough sometimes. It took just that one case to break him.

I run my fingers over the soft wood of the frame again, trying to imagine the feel of his coat hidden in the grain, the lingering smell of the office in the dust. But there is nothing. This Charlie has been dead for a long time.

I lower his frame back to the chest, another one catching my eye instead. My fingers caress the edge of the next one, longing for the same sense of security the previous one had offered me.

It gives me the opposite. Invisible splinters pierce my skin, dotting my fingers with dark black blood. I drop the frame back onto the chest; the sound of cracking glass fills the air as I wipe the blood on my trousers. I inspect it from afar, afraid to touch it again.

The dust on this frame is considerably less than the first; in fact barely any coats it at all. I peer through the cracked glass, a sizable break in the middle of the picture makes it hard to see, but I know this one all too well.

The glass gives a distorted image of the picture below, but compared to how it used to look, it's almost normal. A woman's face is all that features in it: her eyes huge and penetrating, her smile dangerous and Grinch-like.

As expected the plaque beneath this one is new as well, a polished gold slab stands out against the dry white wood.

_Renée Higgenbotham 1994_

I sneer at the picture, the vile woman taunting me with unspoken words. Everything about her is wrong, she is wrong. She is nothing to me. She should've been better. She should've made me better.

She should have wanted me to be better.

She used to be a quiet girl, one that would never question anything. Of course she was exactly his type; the one girl that could fade into the background could never fade from his mind. I nearly laugh. How ironic.

A white veil flutters gently behind her head in the breeze. The side of someone's face is caught next to hers, but half is folded away. However quiet she'd seemed she had always liked to be the centre of attention, and who would dare take that away from her on this day? The answer was no one. No one would deny her on her wedding day.

I feel sick looking at her smile; someone like her doesn't deserve to be happy, not when you know you're about to ruin so many lives. Breathing heavily I hurl the frame off the chest, sending it beyond my distorted vision, never to be seen again.

I turn back wearily to the chest; something different waits for me. A small white box sits patiently on the chest, waiting for me to open it. Suddenly everything changes.

The light that had been present just a second ago fades and the overwhelming shadows that used to cloud just the corners of my vision now engulf me, leaving only a shaft of light falling on me and the chest. The box is placed purposely in the middle of the stream, a soft shadow surrounding the base.

I don't want to open it – that I know for sure. My hands move towards it regardless, refusing to listen to me. I plead with them, but I don't know why. What is it about this box that makes me feel like this? Why does it make me want to run and hide?

My fingers easily knock the fragile lid from the box. Whatever is in there hasn't been protected very well. Shaking hands reach it – a weird, disfigured looking thing. Wood sticks out at awkward angles and its uneven sides create an oddly shaped polygon – it looks like a child's first woodwork.

Something in it moves. I gasp in shock. There is no glass on this frame, nothing to protect me from the image that tortures me now. It's unlike the others. This picture is like a movie. It drags along reluctantly, like a scene replayed over and over in slow motion. A silent black and white film.

I watch in horror as the memory flashes before my eyes, clawing at them, burning them. This one is fresh; it's like a gaping wound. I understand the need for a box now. I try to look away but my eyes are transfixed on it. I barely have time to look over their faces, try to understand them, before the bright light explodes in my face once again.

This time the whole room lights up and I finally see where I am. My old room. In my old house. A time from my old life, in Forks. And then the light recedes, my vision almost black, with only a pinpoint of light focused on the bronze plate.

_Isabella Marie Swan 2010_

And then the shadows finally overpower the light, and everything sinks into darkness.


	2. Curls of Saltwater Hair

**Chapter 1: Curls of Saltwater Hair**

There is a man sat beside me with explosive diarrhoea. It's all over the seat and all over the floor: I am thankful it's not on me. He begins to wipe it with his jacket, managing only to spread it further and create the most grotesque sound. The sight is fucking beautiful.

This man, 32A, mouths an apology, but seems more than content and a little smug at the idea of having the whole row to himself. It's a tiny plane but I hope with every ounce of my being that there is a seat at the back near the cabin crew's area. I leave then, and 32A smiles slightly to himself.

One seat is all that's left at the back of the plane. I pretend to sleep as I hear the beginnings of complaints and confusion at the smell. I hear the passengers run up and down the plane searching for seats, only to return with disappointed footsteps to their own when there are none. I hear the cabin crew behind me as they start to act; some unsure, some hysterical, and some about to puke.

I am alone beside the blissful sleeping souls around me. Then there's an announcement from the pilot who, audibly uncomfortable, states the plane will continue towards its destination. Two hours and thirty minutes left. They are not the worst I have had to endure.

xx

I'm about to fall asleep when I hear it. Her voice. I have trouble opening my fatigued eyes; they are glued shut. Then they open, and I see.

"Ange?"

She pauses, then turns. 'B?' she whispers. I nod. It's silent for a while then. She stands, frozen.

I haven't seen her in years. Though you can tell she is some several years older, she is all but my mirror. Dressed as all the other flight attendants are; in her hands she holds a plastic bottle of what seems to be disinfectant, and a heavily soiled towel. The disinfectant trembles in her hands.

'Let me just... get rid of this', she mutters, obviously disgusted with it, as she looks to be with me as well. She goes. Mine are the hands that tremble now; I thought this might be easier, though I never expected to have to run into this sort of thing before I even arrived.

She returns half an hour later, and offers no apology. She kneels beside my chair and studies the sleeping forms around us, making sure they're beyond hearing, before she speaks.

'Let me look at you', she whispers, and shaking hands meet my face. Her features darken. 'What in the fuck were you thinking, B. I told you to stay away from there that night; you weren't supposed to be there. How many fucking times did I have to put my neck on the line for you to understand that when I tell you to do something, you do it?'

A pause.

She steadies herself and removes her hands to grip my arm rest. 'Fuck, I've had how many years to deal with this?' she mumbles. She breathes slowly, and I say nothing. I am afraid of how real everything has suddenly become. But she is only the first tonight; there will undoubtedly be more reminders.

'I thought about you a lot, knew what I was going to say if I ever saw you again, but, Bell, your fucking face, God, you still look so young'

Another pause.

Her breathing says she's frustrated, I'm guessing by the fact that I haven't spoken yet. 'I have spent the last three years dealing with this shit, B. Do you have any idea?' She looks at me like she expects to find answers written in my eyes. She does not find anything. 'Everything got fucked-up 'cause of you'

I snap. 'Don't pretend you're some fucking saint Ange, you screwed shit up just as much as I did'

'I left, B. Before it got too far, before I did something stupid like you'

'What do you want me to say, Ange? That I'm sorry? That I'm fucking sorry your word was not my law, that I didn't worship everything you ever said to me?' I grip the armrest either side of her hands, my face is in hers. 'Just 'cause you were fucking Jimmy every-now-and-then didn't give you any right to tell me what to do'

She doesn't flinch. 'Fucking Jimmy had nothing to do with it, B'. Then her voice goes soft. 'I cared about you. You were like my sister'

'I didn't need a sister, Ange'

She flinches now. 'No, you just needed someone to help you fuck your dad over'

A longer pause. I try to feel nothing.

'I didn't need your help, Ange. I didn't need _you_. That was the only reason you were there, you wanted someone to need you, you wanted to feel like you were part of something. I never needed you. They hated you. We knew you wouldn't last – you never had the balls'

Another flight attendant moves towards us. His eyes are focused on Ange, his feet stumbling over discarded items that lay forgotten in the aisle. Ange doesn't seem to see him, more she senses him.

When she speaks next, I know it's for him. 'It's B. Leave me alone, it's B'. He lingers for a moment – his silver nametag 'Ben' glinting softly in the dark– then wades away slowly.

She sighs, and I turn to face her again. 'He got me this job. After I left, I told him everything and he got me this job. I don't ever have to go back there, I am free of it. I might never have really been a part of it, but if you think I am not relieved that I wasn't, you're wrong. I'll never need it again. But you will', she says reluctantly, ' I can see it in you, that spark – the one that would burn a whole city to the ground and leave you laughing alone in the ashes if you let it. You will always need to go back. I am free'

'Do you expect me to be proud of you?'

'No', is all she says for a while. 'I expected you to be proud of yourself', she mutters, 'all those times I imagined what this would be like, I thought you would be there and just smile like you used to. I thought I would be able to feel it in the air like some poison. I left because, when I imagined it, I was just as proud of you as you were, and it disgusted me'. Her hands begin to loosen themselves from my armrest, then her fingers rub soothingly on the backs of my hands.

'How could anyone be proud of you?' she muses. She stands, and I am no longer comforted. 'You were my only regret, Bella; that I couldn't save you'

Then she leaves.

I don't see her for the rest of the flight, and I doubt I will ever see her again.

xx

Despite the fact that when we arrive it is A. three in the morning, and B. pouring down with an unfortunate mix of deformed snow and just-on-the-verge-of-freezing rain, the lingering stench of bleach and diarrhoea is enough to turn the passengers to animals and the exit to a buffet.

There are endless queues between me and the freezing, black night. Normally, I would've been pissed – I hated queues – but this time I am thankful. Slightly. It gives me time to prepare – there will undoubtedly be more reminders.

I wait nervously in the arrivals hall. It will be his hair that sets him apart, as it had always done, and so I search for that – the space is unusually crowded for three a.m. My mind wonders as I watch the tide of people slowly ebb away: some children bobbing on shoulders like buoys, some dragged away crying and clinging to the floor like seaweed. I left Forks as a hermit crab, I think; I was always home, it was the world that moved around me. I was carried away by a power that pulled and pushed against everything that had ever been created, leaving nothing more than dust and sand. I had tried escaping from that shell, I'd even come close sometimes, but it seemed that I was it and it was me. There was no escape for the hermit from its shell.

I see the brown curls then. They are lifeless and lined with grey, but they are attached to the same man I left – my father. He sees me then, and it is as if the life has drained out of him as well. Here is another hermit, returning to its shell.

He comes to stop in front of me, several feet in front, and says nothing. 'Charlie'. I break the silence.

His features are heavy with disappointment and hurt. He sighs deeply, 'Bella'.

We say nothing more.

He turns without taking my suitcase or offering any help. I drag it behind me and the hum of its wheels is the only noise we make.

The cruiser is alone in the car park; this is the second. I slide in the back with my bags as Charlie ghosts into the front. The partition is pathetic in its attempt to show all that there is between my father and I. All the unspoken words.

I busy myself with imagined conversation as he drives down the dark and silent roads; it's something I've become more familiar with over the last couple months.

In my mind he asks me how I am. I reply with a short answer, it gives nothing away – I am pleased with the results of my preparation. What was Phoenix like this autumn? He questions. This time my answer is longer – it was strange, I say, much cooler than I'm used to it being. The last couple of years it's been really hot, it's like we can never get enough air. His lips tighten, and he nods politely. I tell him I had fun, that it was fun but not that I didn't know it was serious, because I did, I made friends and they helped me. Somewhat. He doesn't seem comforted by that.

I'm about to ask him what it was exactly that he had wanted me to do there, when he speaks. 'I fixed your old room up for you. You'll sleep there 'till we can figure something else out', a pause, 'We'll try figure out something soon'. His voice is gruff from not speaking, and betrays no emotion.

'Thank you', I say. He eyes me through the rear-view mirror, a twitch of surprise running through his features. He nods slightly.

Our house is second on the left, and we arrive just before six-thirty. It took me less than ten minutes, but I hear Charlie's snores resonate from upstairs by the time I get all my stuff out of the cruiser and into the house. I pause and let my eyes adjust to the blackness.

The rooms are nearly unrecognisable. On my left the living room has been completely moved around, perhaps even fully refurnished – I can't tell under the mess and the blackness. I stumble blindly into the kitchen on the right, and feel my way to what I think must be the table. It is a disfigured beast, heaving with stacks of paper and littered with all different types of case-files.

I sit on the only seat not topped with anything, and close my eyes.

This is the way the world ends.


	3. Caffeine Tears and Pangs of Love

**Chapter 2: Caffeine Tears and Pangs of Love**

I wake to the sound of sound of pouring water and the smell of fresh coffee. I sigh; coffee was a luxury long not afforded to me. It's been a long time since I've smelt its familiar aroma. With it brings flashes of my dream: the frames, my distorted vision, and the monochromatic world in which I was trapped. I find little more comfort in the world I find myself in now.

Charlie comes to sit opposite me, across the mountain of forgotten files; he's made a space for himself and his coffee. He says nothing, occasionally switching concentration between his coffee and some papers that lay scattered upon the mess. I break the silence.

'Morning, Charlie', I mumble; my voice is almost non-existent. He looks up and nods, but still says nothing. The days ahead will be quiet, and there will, without a doubt, be many more internal conversations to be had. I move to make myself some coffee and find myself disappointed; Charlie has used up all the boiled water. I consider boiling my own, but decide against the effort. I settle for tap water.

We sit in silence. I decide that my father still loves me, perhaps. The silence itself is indicative of it, that I have hurt him in some almost irreversible way, and how could one do that without the other being emotionally involved. They couldn't. I almost smile at the realisation. He still loves me. But then it could just be that the silence is a habit, a well-worn reminder that there has been no love in this house now for almost three years. This line of thought depresses me.

Charlie speaks. 'The party starts at six tonight', he says slowly, carefully, 'you need to pick up some stuff up from the store; I have to go in to the station for a couple hours'. He reaches for one of the papers atop his pile and hands it to me. It's the shopping list. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out some money, and hands that to me as well. 'Only what's on there, nothing else'. He adds almost begrudgingly, 'y'understand?'

I nod, and then he goes. I sip my water and pick my brain; a party? It was not his birthday and neither was it mine (though I doubt he would've taken notice if it had been). My father had once been the type that loved doing anything where a large amount of people were involved, but the years had changed that. After Renée left, that Charlie moved on.

Perhaps I had done him a favour. Maybe I had given him back his love for company. I decide that this is the preferable notion and that I will regard it as true, though, realistically, I know that no one with regular company keep their house in this sort of disarray. I decide to be stubborn.

I look at the clock on the oven. It's already past two; we had been exhausted last night. I am still in the clothes I had worn on the plane, and I struggle enormously with even the idea of leaving the house. I am sure that if I sit here until six, all the items my father has asked for will magically appear, or he might find them somewhere later on and he might say, how could I forget? I bought them all yesterday, sorry kiddo, and that would be the end of it. It's the latter thought that reminds me of the impossible.

I drag my things up the stairs and onto the landing. There is no reason to be afraid of your room, I say. I'm not, I reply, but I hear even that second voice in my head shake a little. This will not be the third reminder. I did not return to this room after it happened, this room is clean of taint. This room is the only one that doesn't know. This room is all I have left.

This will not be the third reminder. This will be the single reminder of the wrongness of all else I did.

I pull on the handle and push the door open; it creaks gently as it has always done, but all I hear is screaming. My room is the same, although much tidier than before and spotless compared to the rest of the house. It is obvious my father hasn't spent very much time in here. I line my bags up carefully against the foot of the bed; I try not to leave my stain on its perfect state.

The shower is bliss and so I take my time. It has been a long time since I showered like this, that I took the time to relax. I have brought into the bathroom with me some jeans and a shirt, which I change into after the shower.

When I leave the house it is well after four. I stuff the list and the money into a pocket and start walking. It's January and it's cold; I wear a coat. This is the month of death: the consistent and reliable death of most New Year's resolutions, the half-hearted mourning of the year just passed and all its could'ves and should'ves, and the reluctant burial of Christmas decoration and all that once brought joy.

The weather itself is no better; the grey clouds grow darker as I arrive at the grocery store. It's family run; the Yorkie's own it. I remember one of their sons, Eric, because we used to have class together. I wonder if he works there now. I wonder if I will see the same accusations in his eyes that I have seen in my fathers.

It's slightly warmer inside, but only slightly. There aren't as many people around as you might've thought for a Monday afternoon. I wander up and down the aisles, occasionally stopping to drop an item into my basket; the list isn't that long.

Nothing much happens 'till I get to aisle number seven.

I stop, appraising several bags of chips. I feel someone stop behind me, though I take no notice. I hear their footsteps as they come closer. He almost collides with me. I feel his breath against my neck. I have not realised in time.

His breath is there again, 'Bella?' he asks quietly, redundantly. I refuse to turn. His face will be the third reminder.

'Fuck off. Now' I growl so only he can hear.

His fingers meet my hips, 'Mm, my Bella, it is you. I didn't expect to see you so soon'. His nails scrape along my skin.

'You fucking heard me, Mike. Get your hands off me'

'That's not what you used to say', he teases. I turn and push his hands from me. I push him away, hard. Then again. And again. He is against the shelves opposite the chips now. He looks slightly winded.

'I don't care what I used to say. You know what I can do, Mike, and I will remind you if you don't stay the hell away from me'. He blinks. There had been fear in his eyes.

'Alright, B, jeez, calm down'

'Don't call me that', I am angry. 'I gave her up; they took her away from me, because of you'.

His smile is loud and confident. 'You'll always be her to me'. I turn away from him; my basket is on the floor, I must have dropped it.

'Yeah, and you'll always be an asshole'. I hear him chuckle slightly. He grabs my hand and pulls me back to him, then bows. I slap his hand away, and move to leave again.

'What happened to us, Bell? We used to have fun', his words stop me. His shirt is in my fists and I am pushing him against the metal shelves before I can even think.

'You know pretty damn well what happened seeing as you were the one that snitched!' I pull my face up to his, 'Did you pay for it? Did they make you bleed? I wish I could've been there to see them beat you into the ground. Tell me how they broke you, whisper it to me. I want to hear the pain in your voice when you remember; I want to see your eyes begging for it to end. I hope you got what you fucking deserved', then I spit in his face. I try to push away from him but realise his hands grip me just as tightly. He removes one to wipe his shirt over his face, then smiles.

He whispers in my ear. 'There she is'. I punch him then.

I shake my fist to dull the pain. The first bag of chips I see then is the one I grab, then I pay for the things and leave. I smile as I picture Mike bleeding in aisle seven; I have waited years to do that.

xx

I arrive back home with half an hour to spare. As I walk into the house, I am reminded of this morning – I recognise nothing. On the left, the living room is pristine; most furniture lines the walls leaving an emptiness that will surely be filled with celebration later. The kitchen is spotless, the beast that was once the table has been tamed and now seems to serve a variety of convenient dips and snacks.

I start to empty the shopping bags, when I hear someone behind me. 'I only bought what was on the list. Your change is on the side', I gesture to the counter. I expect a reply then, even if not words, some sound of approval. There is none. I hear no footsteps move towards the counter for his change. I feel a sudden chill. I turn.

A woman stands in the doorframe. She is only slightly taller than me, but much curvier. Her hair is the colour of honey; her brown eyes are black, dilated in fear. She holds a fist to her mouth, and slowly her features melt and a sigh escapes her.

'Oh, Bella'. I say nothing. I am frozen. 'Oh, my sweet girl', and tears drop. She weeps softly but makes no move towards me; there is still fear in her body. She laughs and wipes her eyes. 'I was just cleaning things up. Charlie asked me if I could help out a little before the party, and I know how he gets so, I said of course I would, but I never... expected...', her tears fall again, and I cannot speak.

I hear the keys in the front door; I hear it bang as my father throws it open carelessly. 'Es, I'm so sorry, I got held up. There was this call and Dave hadn't gotten in yet, I had to...' his voice goes as he realises what she stares at. Me. 'Fuck, Es, I meant to be back before she got here'.

She turns to hug him. 'You didn't tell me she was back', she faces me, and they both stare. I am like an endangered shark at an aquarium; their eyes are filled with fascination and fear. I do all I can think of.

I point to the counter where I put the change, 'I only bought what was on the list', I repeat. They sound like words from a script. He goes to pick up his change.

He looks to the ground before he mumbles, 'thanks, kiddo'. My heart swells, though I know his words are only for her benefit. 'You remember Esme, don't ya', he nods pointedly and I try to smile.

'Of course', is all I can say.

She moves toward my father, but comes no closer. 'I've missed you so much, sweetheart', she says to me. She puts her hands on his shoulders and kisses his cheek, 'I'll go pick Carlisle up from the hospital', and then she leaves.

'I'm going to clean up', he says, 'you should too', and then he leaves as well.

xx

Upstairs, I dig through my bags to find something nice. I settle for a simple blue dress; I assume it will not be an overly formal occasion. I sit on my bed and play with my hair. I think about Esme, and the fact that she will be downstairs. I think about her for a long time.

I've missed you so much, sweetheart, she said. Oh, my sweet girl, she said. I decide that if my father chooses not to love me, at least she does. I decide that, even though there was fear, even though she never came close to me, my mother (for all intents and purposes) still loves me. It makes me smile.

I decide to go downstairs.

There are much more people than I'd have expected; I suppose he made friends while I was gone. There are faces that I recognise, but they are vastly outnumbered by those I do not. It is loud; music plays quietly in the background while the noise of words are deafening. People spill from the living room to the garden, and the emptiness that it once was is no more.

I retreat to the kitchen. The clock reads 7:30. The snacks have been fully devoured, and only crumbs remain on the table. Because of this, the room is empty. I move towards the stove, I've decided to have the coffee I wasn't bothered to make this morning; it's been a long day.

As the water waits to boil I hear footsteps. I sit at the table now, and all I do is look up. A man stands in the doorway where Esme had stood; his eyes hold the same terror hers had done. This time, I don't understand. The man's eyes are wild as they desperately search the room for what is obviously not there; he hasn't had time to see me yet. If the terror does not exist for me, why does it exist?

I clear my throat; his eyes jump to me and focus. 'You okay?' I wait for the fear that belongs to me to appear. He stares at me, and it doesn't. There seems to be no fear that will push his out of its place. His hands clench and unclench as his eyes continue to stare; he is a million miles away.

The water is boiling now and so I stand. It breaks his focus. His eyes try to go back to searching but he closes them. I take the water off the stove and watch him. I try to keep the fear from my eyes. His hands grip either side of the doorframe now and he breathes rapidly.

I need to help. I drag a chair towards him, 'I, uh, think you need to sit down'. He does not say a word and does as he is told. We make no sound besides his heavy breathing.

If there is no fear in my eyes, there certainly is in my body. I am tense; my muscles, unsure. If this man was about to die, I couldn't understand why he chose to do so alone in my company, rather than in that of the dozens of people who, I am sure, would've had more of an idea of how to take care of him. Maybe he wanted to die. I remember the fear in his eyes and decide this is not the case.

Then, a thought. 'Stay here. I'm going to get Dr. Cullen, he can help you', I reassure. I go to leave but the man grabs my hand before I can. It's sweaty and warm; it tremors in my hand. He gasps.

When he speaks, there is almost no sound. 'Carlisle...Esme...I can't find them. Help me, please, help me find them', there are tears.

I nod and squeeze his hand. 'Yeah, I'll be right back'. He lets go of my hand.

I leave the kitchen. The crowds have frozen, and they stand in a maze. In the commotion I haven't noticed the silence of the party; there is only one man that speaks.

'And today, in honour of this fine man – one of Fork's greatest, we celebrate. Not only does he become one of the longest serving members of the Forks Police Department, his achievements over the years have established a new standard that we all hope to uphold. This man embodies everything we spend our lives fighting for, and he is a true hero. It gives me no greater joy than to congratulate you on the twentieth anniversary of your initiation to the force, and your promotion to the Head of the Cold Cases Division. I am thankful to have had the honour of working with you for the past twenty years, and look forward to the next. To Charlie'

A chorus rings, 'To Charlie!'. Glasses sing against each other and voices begin to rise again. I have made little progress through the maze in the time of the speech; I feel my own hands begin to sweat.

I see them bobbing – his brown curls – and I run. 'Charlie, there's a man', I am out of breath, 'in the kitchen, I think there's something wrong with him. Oh God, I don't know. Where's Carlisle? I told him I'd get Carlisle; he's been looking for him'.

'Carlisle?' If my father had been sober, he would not have been this slow.

'Yes, Carlisle, where's Carlisle?' My eyes continue to search while he stumbles through his stupor.

Suddenly, he throws his head back and bellows. 'Carly! Carly!' The room quietens slightly, 'paging doctor Carly!' My father beams when a disgruntled mop of blonde hair appears at the top of the stairs.

'What, you bloody drunk bastard?' He calls down. His eyes seem out of focus, but when they land on my father, he grins. They both laugh. I watch as Carlisle half walks, half falls down the stairs; I've never seen him drunk before. As he reaches the bottom, I see Esme come out from the bathroom. Carlisle does too. 'There you are!' He is stunned, 'I've been looking for you!'

She smiles slightly as she comes to stand with us. 'You were asleep on Charlie's bed, Carlisle', he looks at the ground.

Charlie gasps and his eyes widen, 'There's a problem! A m'energency!' He shouts drunkenly. Carlisle's head shoots up and he grabs Charlie's shoulders violently.

'I am a doctor!' Esme puts her face in her hands. She turns to me as the men stare at each other.

'Bella, what's wrong? What is it, darling?' Her voice is like honey and her words warm me. I stumble as I remember the man.

'There's a man in the kitchen, I think he's in trouble. He said he was looking for you and Dr. Cullen. He's all alone, I had to leave him to find you', I realise. The fear is in Esme's eyes again, but not because of me this time. She looks over to Carlisle and Charlie, who seem to be having some sort of no-blinking contest.

'Come on, love. If it's too much for me, we can call an ambulance', and people part to let her through to the kitchen. I follow closely behind her; people will make no parting for me. She stops at the door but I move closer to the man. He is in the same state: his breathing erratic, his hands in his hair.

'I got Esme, she's here, she can help you', his breathing is chaotic, 'do you think we need an ambulance?' I look at Esme. She stares at the man almost in the same way she stared at me earlier, but there is sadness in her eyes. She shakes her head slightly and goes to kneel in front of him.

'Edward, darling', she moves to hold his face. His breathing slows when her hands touch his skin, and his eyes spring open. He all but collapses into her arms; his tears are now rivers.

He holds her close to him, 'thank God, you're still alive, oh my God, oh my God'. His breathing hitches for a second and his eyes search behind her. He pulls back from her. 'Carlisle?'

'He's in the living room, Edward. He's fine', she wipes his tears. His breathing starts accelerating again, and Esme looks to me. 'Could you get Carlisle, Bella, please?'

I do, even though I don't understand. When Carlisle sees Edward he seems to sober up somewhat. He loses the buzz that overwhelms his body, and walks over to him calmly.

'I'm here, Edward. I'm fine. Look at me, I'm fine', he rubs Edward's back. I am extraneous; I need to leave. I turn to go but Esme reaches a hand for me. She kisses Edward's cheek and he releases her.

She stands for what seems like hours, and then she moves forwards. She hugs me. I am frozen once more. 'Thank you, for helping', she breathes. I say nothing. She does not kiss me on the cheek, but she rubs my arms and smiles. 'Oh, how I've missed you, my darling'.

Then she leaves. All three of them leave, and I am left not knowing.


End file.
